


An Improper tongue

by the_sunthorn (ceeainthereforthat)



Series: The Wishful Thoughts of Quinntus Everflight [3]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Blood Elves, Dominance games, M/M, Murder Row, Original Player Characters, Paladin, Priest, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 19:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceeainthereforthat/pseuds/the_sunthorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This particular Wishful Thoughts Story could've actually happened, simply because no one's OOC in this one. The Wishful thoughts in this particular story are, instead of portrayed in a fantasy, spoken aloud.</p><p>I've another one of this series at an agonizing more than half done. This story damn near rolled off my fingers today, and it's maybe not so fluffy and light as all of that. the next one should be fairly soon, as I seem to do more writing when Havoc's player is drawing. Art feeds off Art, he says.</p><p>om nom nom, I say.</p><p>I enjoy comments; please give.</p>
    </blockquote>





	An Improper tongue

**Author's Note:**

> This particular Wishful Thoughts Story could've actually happened, simply because no one's OOC in this one. The Wishful thoughts in this particular story are, instead of portrayed in a fantasy, spoken aloud.
> 
> I've another one of this series at an agonizing more than half done. This story damn near rolled off my fingers today, and it's maybe not so fluffy and light as all of that. the next one should be fairly soon, as I seem to do more writing when Havoc's player is drawing. Art feeds off Art, he says.
> 
> om nom nom, I say.
> 
> I enjoy comments; please give.

The door to the examining room opened, carefully on silent hinges. Quinntus had his back to it, tallying supplies in the storage cupboard: boiled sheets, bandages, sealed packages of boiled metal tools, wooden slats, some padded.

He didn't jump until Havoc's hands were on him, settled as soon as smell - a trace of metal, the verbena-scent through his clothes, leather and linden - told him it was his knight, his husband.

Quinntus swiveled around in the circle of his arms, kissed him, only tightened his arms around Havoc's neck as he was lifted off his toes and kissed, open mouthed and feverish. Moaned as Havoc drew him up against his unarmored body, broad and strong and--

Apruptly he was on his feet again, and Havoc had him by the hand, tugging him out of the last examining room and down the hall, past the clinic's host.

"He's been working too hard," Havoc explained, and they were out of the shop front and down the Row in a twinkling, stairs up to their flat taken two at a time. It wasn't until Havoc had the door to their flat locked behind them that he kissed Quinn again, the priest's face cupped in his hands.

Quinn purred - he was in for a ride; Havoc was in quite a mood if he'd all but dragged him home.

"I thought for a moment," Quinn murmured in a breath, "that you were going to put me on the examination table and have me right there."

Havoc stopped kissing the corner of his mouth, stared at Quinn with wide eyes. He hadn't thought of it, his knight...his proper, staid, courtly knight. Quinn came over butterflies looking at him, smiled fondly at his beautiful, innocent shock, and went on.

"The foot pumps raise the table, lower it, depending on what height is comfortable. You could make it perfect, just that touch higher than the kitchen table needs to be - though I like it when you lift me up," Quinn smirks.

"Some-someone could come in," Havoc stammered, and Quinn laughed.

"Part of the fun! Someone might catch us, so we'd have to do it fast--or maybe they'd just know, after a minute or two, what you were doing to me--"

"You have a most improper tongue," Havoc chided.

"You love my tongue," Quinn teased back. "You could keep me muffled, though, while you did delightful things to me--the table has panels that swing out, did you know? And there's rests for them, you could put my heels on them and swing them wide--"

"An improper tongue that needs correction," Havoc ground out, and yanked him along, across the kitchen to Havoc's chair, tipped up and over Havoc's knee, across his lap, the back of his robes hauled up, his torusers down around his knees.

"Toes together, heels apart, and keep your feet that way," Havoc ordered.

The moment Quinn obeyed, the knight's hand swept up, catching the priest's cheeks on the underside, a hollow *pop* the sound of the air trapped in his cuffed hand, and Quinn squealed.

"That hurt!"

"Of course it did," Havoc answered, "It's punishment." Three more popping slaps, and Quinn arched his back, cried out at each.

The fourth snapped his heels together, and Havoc leaned back, took away the arm that held him at the waist. Quinn knew his head was turned, staring at his feet out of position, waiting.

Quinn took a breath, and spread his heels, toes together in a neat row.

"Good boy," Havoc praised, and made his cheeks jiggle with the force of those spanking slaps - always on the most sensitive, but safest spot on the buttocks for a blow, exactly as Ori's marvellous book had explained, timed to a rhythm Quinn learned, twitching in anticipation of another stinging, ringing slap.

Havoc was never comfortable with that book, and wouldn't read that part when Quinn had pestered him about adding spanking to their lovemaking. But he spanked too accurately, too well for a first time...

"You sneak," he gritted out. "Ow! You read the book!"

"Heels," was Havoc's only reply, leaning back again.

Quinn put his heels apart, but Havoc gave no other answer but his calloused, cupped palm on Quinn's ass. It was already hot, so hot, every slap stung harder, hurt more than he imagined it would, and it didn't stop for his cries or protests, didn't stop for anything but when his heels swiveled back together, when the next spank would make him kick.

Havoc stopped, every time. And every time, Quinn let them fall apart, and the spanking would begin again, burn him again. Havoc was going to leave bruises! He was bruised already! He was a brute! Quinn would never speak to him again, ever!

"It hurts!" Quinn yelled, his heels clamped tighly together, shaking.

"Do you want to stop the punishment now, before it's done?" Havoc asked. He didn't hold Quinn down, leaned back. Quinn could get up, hitch his pants back up, stalk away from Havoc and wait in another room until Havoc came, and apologised, and promised never to punish him again.

For Havoc would come. Havoc would apologise, and ask forgiveness. Havoc would promise never to punish him again, not for anything Quinn ever did for the rest of their lives.

Quinn spread his heels apart, toes together.

"I love you," Havoc replied, and scraped his fingernails over scarlet hot flesh. Quinn screamed, and felt the silver hot lines of fire rise, knew from the curves and points what Havoc drew.

Quinn sobbed when that heavy hand came down on reddened flesh and even redder, hotter heart shaped welts. He fought to keep his heels apart and wept, held tight to Havoc's knee and squealed and cried and pressed his heels down, kept them apart in the haze of pain and burning heat--a pause brought no relief, it only made him twitch and cry, the rhythm of the spanking broken, not knowing when that burning hand would fall again, and tears fell freely, his sobbing open-throated and his legs paralyzed by the posture of his feet.

Quinn would not move them.

And then Quinn was in his arms, kissed, carried away. Quinn clung to his neck and wiped teary cheeks on his sleeves, kicked out of his half-off trousers, abandoning them in the hall.

Havoc stripped Quinn, stripped himself, laid Quinn out on the bed, facedown. Gentle hands on his burning asscheeks--Quinn protested, thinking that Havoc would heal it. Quinn didn't want it healed. He wanted that throbbing soreness, the hurt--and the soft furry warm tendrils that wrapped around his brain, so much like what he felt after Havoc made him come.

But Havoc didn't take the burning away. He petted, stroked, and Quinn knew at the sound of a drawer scraping open what Havoc meant to do, and slick cool fingers pushed between his burning cheeks, pressed inside and scissored apart to stretch him.

Quinntus moaned, arched his back, raised his ass higher, welcoming a third finger with a whimper and the rocking of his hips. His butt had to glow, it felt so hot still. Had he bruised? Would he feel it when--

Then Havoc pulled him up to his knees, and shuffled up behind him, and what pressed inside him now was bigger than three fingers, stretched him wide - Havoc held him by the hinge of his hips and thighs and pulled him back onto his cock, and Quinn felt the sharp stretch like more heat spreading from a hotter white point. He loved Havoc's cock going inside him, felt pride that he could sheath that length and girth in his body, craved that feeling of fullness -- light, so full, so big it curled his toes, made his stiff cock throb and jump.

"I love you," Quinn sighed, right after he had squeaked at Havoc's flex inside him, the broad head nudging ever deeper, eager to be where it belonged. Then that stretch paused, as Havoc drew back, plunged deeper, to Quinn's gasp and eager moan.

"Your bottom is scarlet," Havoc said. "I think you might bruise."

"Brute," Quinn purred. "I'll smile every time I sit down, remembering how my husband loves me."

That made Havoc gasp and plunge a little deeper. "You will?"

"I'll take my cushion off my chair at breakfast. I will sit on the saddle stools at work, and repent my improper tongue. Although," Quin murmurs, "The saddle stools at work will adjust quite low. Low enough that I could sit before you and put my tongue to proper use?"

Havoc grunted and thrust the last inch; Quinn squealed as he stretched so fast, felt the crinkling press of Havoc's hair, and then the pressure of his groin on his burning asscheeks--gone, as Havoc yanked himself away.

But he was back, hard enough that his balls slapped against Quinn's perinium. Quinn saw stars, flaring on the lids of his eyes.

"And-what-use-is-that?" Havoc asked, the words ragged on his thrusts inside. "Explain it to me. Fully."

"Will you say it's wicked?"

"Of course. Tell me," Havoc says, and jars Quinn a little ways up the bed, follows on shuffled knee.

"Set the seat low, all the pole angles flat," Quinn gasps out. "And tie me to it."

Havoc growled, "Fitting. To keep you _still_."

Quinn whined--oh, he'd been taught how to stay still. Havoc repeated the lesson often. "And I'm sitting on the saddle, on my poor bruised bum--"

"That you deserved, you wicked thing--"

"And you've got the short plug up inside me, the nice fat one."

Havoc hoisted Quinn's hips up again, dragged himself so far out Quinn tried to clench down to resist losing him, groaned as Havoc yanked him back into his hard thrusts, the heat of his cheeks flaring against each contact.

"I can't move, you've tied my hands too, and you can stand in front of me, and I'm the perfect height, I can just open my mouth, and you can stop my wicked chatter by filling my mouth with your--"

"Enough!" Havoc roared, and his thrusts were jerky, urgent...he gasped, and pounded into his priest with abandon.

Quinn moaned and quivered, knowing that it was coming, and unable to resist just one more thing:

"I'd be utterly helpless..."

Havoc's voice cracked on a groan and he came.

Quinn exulted in every jerk, the hot, liquid flood, the feeling of his knight's pulse throbbing as he shuddered to a halt and gasped for a proper breath. Then they were falling, rolling - Quinn sprawled atop Havoc, staring up at the ceiling above, the knight's sword hand wrapped around his erection and sliding, squeezing, pumping in time with the thrusts of his hips.

"Your wicked tongue isn't cured yet," havoc whispered in his ear. "Will it ever be?"

"No," Quinn whispered back. "Never."

"Good," Havoc purred. "Come for me, Quinn. Come."

"I love you," Quinn whispered, and obeyed his husband.

*

The note tacked on the notice board for clinic staff read:

 _"The saddle stool in Ex. Rm. 3 has a wobble in one of its wheels. I took it to get it repaired, back tomorrow. M. Silvergrin."_

Quinntus sometimes had trouble concentrating on work that day, but he made up for it by sitting down often.


End file.
